And there would be dinner and supper; and the evening,--just for them.

He would work about the place.

She would attend to her household duties.

He would go to his meals, and she would be there expecting him,--waiting for him.

And when the tasks of the day were finished, they would sit on the porch to watch the coming of the night,--Betty Jo and he, Brian Kent--"What in God's name," the man demanded of the indifferent "Bess," did Auntie Sue mean by placing him in such a situation?
Did she think him more than human?
It had not been easy for Brian to maintain that barrier between himself and Betty Jo, even with the constant help of Auntie Sue's presence.
Many, many times he had barely saved himself from declaring his love; and, now, he was asked to live with her in the most intimate companionship possible.
For the only time in his life Brian Kent was almost angry at Auntie Sue.
"By all that was consistent, and reasonable, and merciful, and safe," he told himself, "if it was absolutely necessary for the dear old lady to disappear so mysteriously, why had she not taken Betty Jo along ?" In the meantime, while Brian was confiding his grievances to his four-footed companions in the barn, Betty Jo was expressing herself in the kitchen.
"Betty Jo," she began, as she raked the ashes from the stove preparatory to building the fire, "it appears to me that you have some serious considering to do, and"-- with a glance toward the barn, as she went out to empty the ash-pan--"you must do it quickly before that man comes for his breakfast.